I see walls upon walls of continuous nothingness.
Actually, I vaguely see the rooms within view if I veer off my path.
I silently wonder what others worry, think, and care about.
But have not the courage to ask them to their faces.
I've long forgotten the ones who I need not.
I've so shortly remembered the people who mean everything to me.

In poetic formation, I lay my heart upon the table.
Nothing personal, just words on a piece of scratched up, useless paper.
Painting a mental picture for people can hardly comprehend it.
Countless times, I have devoted myself to writing.
Pouring my heart out into words that in the end...are not heard.
My teachers wonder why I daydream.
I, myself, wonder why they don't daydream.

My mind is a closed book of poetry.
Open to select few. Even my best friend knows less than she thinks.
I confuse myself at times.
Am I really this far from normal?
Free verses free my soul. Binded verses restrict my mind.

When I fear, I am silent. When I do not fear, I am boisterous.
Is there ever a truly happy medium?
I believe in love, but I do not believe love lasts forever.
There is only one eternal love, and He lives inside of me.
Every other will pass and fade. Your words of wisdom, I hold dear.
Surely there are few among many who believe the same way I do.
Although those few lessen everyday.
If they could see themselves from my perspective, they would simply be ashamed.